


If It Isn't Love

by poisontaster



Series: Light 'Verse [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-18
Updated: 2006-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:36:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5071144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's past just keeps tripping him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If It Isn't Love

**Author's Note:**

> _If I gave up all of my pride for you_  
>  _And only loved you for now_  
>  _Would you hide my fears and never say_  
>  _Tomorrow I must go_
> 
> _I can plainly see that our parts have changed_  
>  _Our sands are shifting around_  
>  _Need I beg to you for one more day_  
>  _To find our lonely love_
> 
> _Everywhere there's rain my love_  
>  _Everywhere there's fear_  
>  "Phantasmagoria in Two" by Tim Buckley (edited) 

Sam's arguing with the nurse, "Do you have to _shave_ it? C'mon, it's less than ten stitches..." when the curtain parts and his head jerks up (ow) to see a face he'd give considerably more than a handful of his hair to not have here.

"Oh God," Joshua says mournfully and steps into the treatment area, long fingered hands twitching like he doesn't know what to do with them. Uncharitably, Sam reflects he probably doesn't.

Sam sighs, hands tightening on the gurney's metal edge. "I told them not to call you."

"What?" It's been more than a year since he's seen Joshua in any capacity other than professional and it's been four months since even that and yet Joshua—never Josh—still manages to look shocked and hurt. "Why would you do that?"

"I need you to lie down," the nurse says, tapping his shoulder and Sam's had just about enough. The bleeding's all but stopped, the wound is fucking _tiny_ and yeah, he's a little concussed, but it's nothing he can't handle on his own, in his own apartment, with his own needle and thread and a healthy slug of Jack or Jim or whatever's lying around the cabinets on top of it. _And_ he won't have a bald spot.

"Hey, look," he says, ducking away from the nurse's urging hands. "I'm fine. I am just great. I don't want any stitches."

"Don't be silly," the nurse says in approximately the same tone that Dean says _Don't be a dumbass, Sam_. Sam shivers and shoves Dean out of his mind. "You need to get that cut closed up."

She reaches for him again and Sam flinches away a second time, going so far as to hop off the gurney. The room pirouettes a little but he's faked it before, locking his knees and standing firm. "No, seriously. I'm going to be just fine." He flaps a hand at Joshua, inspired by a notion. "He'll take care of me."

Joshua is quick to nod, which makes Sam feel like a shit and about a hundred years old but if it gets him out of here, he'll deal. "Oh, yes," Joshua says and he sounds so heartfelt and earnest that Sam's torn between wincing and rolling his eyes.

When did he get so cynical anyway?

 _Maybe when you started hanging out with Dean after Jess died,_ a voice suggests snidely from the back of his mind. _Or maybe it was when you left Dean, after promising him forever, Sammy my boy,_ a second voice chimes in.

The nurse is shaking her head. "Can't just let you go," she says. "Doctor's got to sign you out."

"That's fine," Sam says agreeably and the nurse huffs and rolls her eyes.

When she's gone, Joshua immediately advances on Sam, hands coming out to touch. Sam maneuvers uncomfortably away from him, with considerably more difficulty than with the nurse. "Jesus, Sam," Joshua says, "what the hell happened? Are you okay? Are you sure you shouldn't...?" He gestures at his head.

"What, they didn't tell you when they called?" Sam opens the clear plastic bag of his assorted belongings and pulls out his tee-shirt. There's only a little blood blotching the back of the collar, nothing worrying. Sam grits his teeth and tries to remember that this is his own fault. If he hadn't been so lazy about updating his cell, neither of them would be in this situation.

"Well, yes...no...not really," Joshua stammers. When he shrugs off the hospital gown, Sam sees (feels) Joshua's brown eyes skim over his chest and stomach. He fights the urge to turn his back or use the shirt as a shield. "They left a message on my phone--you're okay, you've had an accident, can I please call the hospital." His eyes are stricken and huge. "I was worried, so I just came instead."

"Huh." Sam grunts. The bruises on his shoulders from banging into the floor throb as he raises his arms over his head. Work's going to be interesting for the next few days. "From the way they made it sound, I thought they'd talked to someb..."

"Sam? _Sam?_ "

"Sir. Sir, I _told_ you..."

Sam didn't think it was possible for something not-supernatural to raise all the hair on his body and cover him in goosebumps but the raw sort-of panicky note of Dean's voice cutting drill sergeant loud over the ER noise manages to do it. Sam pushes past Joshua like the other man's not there and goes to the curtained flap. "Dean?"

Dean's already walking past him, agitated and quick; at the sound of Sam's voice he about-faces so fast Sam's eyes can't follow it, his eyes red and tired-looking. "Sam?" His hand knots in the shoulder of Sam's shirt, making Sam stumble forward a couple steps so Dean has to catch him. "You okay?"

Sam nods and is completely humiliated by the way his throat closes up at the sight of Dean, here and worried. Worried about _him_. "Yeah. I'm good," he says gruffly, pitching his voice low so it doesn't break. The aide who was following Dean like a little pink mayfly throws up her hands with a wordless _mhrph_ of exasperation and walks away.

It's behind him, so he can't really _see_ , but Sam feels Joshua step up into the curtained gap behind him and watches Dean's eyes skate past to take in the other man. All at once, Dean's hand loosens and though neither of them move, there's suddenly all kinds of distance between them. "What...What happened?" Dean's gaze come back to him, still kind of shocky, now a little hurt.

Sam shrugs and shuffles a little. "It's stupid. I fell down at work and hit my head. A little bit of blood and they all tweaked out and called an ambulance."

"He needs stitches," Joshua says, sounding like a self-important little prick and Sam cringes.

Dean looks at Joshua again and Sam sees the contempt that flickers lightning-fast across his brother's face before Dean's manhandling him around to get a look at the seeping gash. Sam helpfully stoops a little bit and, facing Joshua, sees the slightly defiant hurt on his face. Ah, Jeez. Why do things have to get so fucking complicated? "Hmmm," Dean says. "Not bad. Couple stitches, you'll be right as rain. Concussion?"

Sam hunches a shoulder and turns around again. "Yeah, probably. I hit the display case on my way down, I think."

"Yeah, you got that loopy look." He pats Sam lightly on the chest twice and then steps back. "So...what? You hanging around here or you need a ride home?"

"I was going to give him a ride," Joshua says, stepping up next to Sam. His hand touches the small of Sam's back lightly and Sam can't help the way he dances away from it. It doesn't hurt that it puts him a little closer to Dean, either.

"Are you now?" Dean asks and Sam can tell Dean can't quite make up his mind between irritated and amused. He hates that he feels the need to apologize for Joshua, for being seen with Joshua and he really really wants to say, _I'm not with him. He's not with me. There's nothing here for you to get upset about._ Not that he's sure that Dean is or would be upset by the sight of Sam with someone else. That's mostly just wishful thinking on his part. Because he wants Dean to be jealous. He wants Dean to care. "Sammy?"

Joshua flinches and Sam feels another pinch of guilt. Joshua had called him Sammy exactly once, as a joke, and Sam had blown up like Mount Vesuvius and then didn't speak to him for a week.

Sam takes a step forward, one hand making a conciliating gesture in Joshua's direction. Now it's Joshua's turn to duck away. "Look, Joshua, I'm going to catch a ride with my brother here." Joshua's face lightens a little at the word 'brother' and Sam could just fucking kick himself for not letting Joshua think he's Dean's boy toy for just a little longer. Long enough to get him out of Sam's life painlessly, at any rate. "He's got a lot of experience with my dings and scrapes, you know?"

"Oh, yeah, sure..." Joshua says, ducking his head and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, no problem. I just...it was good to see you, Sam. Even if it had to be under..." Joshua grimaces comically, "under circumstances like these."

"Yeah, you too," Sam replies, trying to inject every ounce of sincerity he can into his tone. It's not Joshua's fault he's the anti-Dean. Once upon a time, that was exactly why Sam picked him.

Joshua blushes and Sam hears Dean snerk quietly. He takes a half-step backwards and stomps on Dean's toe. Not hard enough to hurt; his Chucks are no competition for Dean's steel toes, but enough to get him to stop. "Well. Maybe...maybe when you're feeling better you can give me a call or something. Get together. Catch up."

"Yeah, that sounds nice," Sam says. It's such a lie. He's totally deleting Joshua's number the moment he gets the hell out of here. Stupid job. Stupid hospital. Stupid him for forgetting he'd left Joshua as one of his ICE contacts--In Case of Emergency.

Dean makes a noncommittal humming noise and Joshua's face stiffens, the blush deepening.

"Well, I think we should get going," Sam says hastily, grabbing Dean by one jacket sleeve and tugging him towards the doors marked with a bright green exit sign.

"But you didn't sign out!" Joshua protests lamely and then they are gone.

Dean's vague air of amusement falls away like cracked plaster the moment they hit the outside doors and Sam's stomach twists a little. "Look, Dean—"

"You use your own info in there?" Dean jerks his head back towards the hospital, all brusque business now.

Sam nods, bunching his hands in his front pockets and hunching his shoulders forward. "The guys at the bakery gave it to them," he says. "By the time I woke up, I was in the ambulance and it was too late."

Dean throws out a hand to stop Sam and steps in front of him, angling Sam's face into the weak sunlight and looking at him critically. Sam holds still, trained to obedience by years of this, having his wounds evaluated, classified, examined and repaired. Dean's as good a touch with this as he is with the Impala and Sam often suspects they aren't that much different in Dean's mind. Finally, apparently reassured the damage is no worse than Sam said, Dean nods and stands back. Sam suppresses the impulse to bring his hand to his face and touch where Dean's fingertips indented and left warmth against his skin.

"I'll take care of it," Dean says and turns towards where the Impala gleams black and defiant amidst the insipid pastel colors and plastic bodies of the other cars.

"Dean—"

They don't do credit scams anymore; the rules have tightened too much and they're no longer able to just bounce one step ahead of the consequences. What income Dean has comes from his job and the occasional poker or pool game. It's not enough. It's never enough.

"I'll take care of it," Dean says again, sharper, and Sam flounders between wanting to argue about it but not so much that Dean bails on him. Angrily, he realizes yet again that if he'd stayed in law he'd not only be able to afford this himself, he'd have the insurance to take care of it. As it is, his current plan is simply 'don't get sick', which is the same as it's been for most of his life (and thank God for hearty Winchester genes) but he thought he'd be past all this by now.

"I'll pay you back," he offers, uncomfortably aware that between his rent etcetera, his crippling student loans and the size of his check from the bakery, Kait and Evan may be in college before it's all done.

Dean shakes his head as he unlocks the passenger side door for Sam. Sam can't see his face. "Don't worry about it," he says and goes around to his side of the car.

"I'll pay you back." Sam squashes down into the passenger's seat, the familiar feel and smell of the car helping his stomach settle a bit, smooth some of the tension out of his neck and shoulders. Dean starts the car with a rumble and as they pull out, Sam looks back at the sliding doors to see Joshua standing on the concrete 'porch' looking lost and sort of soft, squinting up into the overcast sky.

"So who was that dude?" Dean asks and Sam isn't at all fooled by his tone. Sam's fingers tense on his thigh and he's torn between elation and smacking himself in the head with his own cell phone and concussing himself some more.

"No one," he answers, equally casual. "Some guy I used to work with."

***

  
_Two years ago._

"Hey, Sam."

Sam looks up and fumbles for the name. "Joshua. Hi."

Joshua looks pleased that Sam remembers and comes to an awkward stop. Like Sam, he's all knees and elbows with more height than he knows what to do with, perpetually awkward in the too-large shirts that are the only ones with sleeves long enough to cover his wrists. "You know, most people shorten my name to Josh," he says. "I hate that."

"Did you want something?" Sam prompts him. It's really late, he's only about halfway through his précis for Dana Michaelson and his head aches something fierce after a vision that had him frantically trying to reach Dean every fifteen minutes for three hours…which is why he's only halfway finished. Reflexively, he glances at his cell on the desk next to him. The display is still dark and shows only the time. Other than that first terse and tense call to get the details, Dean hasn't called back to give him the all-clear. And Sam keeps trying to convince himself that doesn't mean anything, that Dean's _just fine_. Because Dean always is.

"Oh. Yeah." Joshua smiles and it must have been too long since Sam's gotten laid, because he feels suddenly blinded by how brilliantly pretty it is.

***

The apartment looks different when it's Dean coming in the door behind him; smaller, sordid, dirty—not that Dean's ever given a shit about any of those things. It's just him, the way it's always just him, drawing lines that don't exist and protecting himself from all the wrong things.  
_I'm seriously concussed,_ he thinks and it's such a stupid, prosaic thought that it makes him laugh, jittery and ugly.

Dean just looks at him, that one eyebrow quirked up.

Sam shakes his head and resists the impulse to smooth his thumb over that arched line. He knows—remembers—how it would make Dean's eyes drop instantly shut, his expression going blank and almost ecstatic. He liked having his scalp rubbed too, Sam's strong fingers massaging knots of tension and soft, warm skin… Sam looks away, the skin of his neck warm enough it feels like it might spontaneously combust. "The place is a mess," he mumbles and flops down on the futon.

"Really?" Dean asks, sarcasm barbing the words. "And here I thought it looked like you'd actually straightened up the place for a change." He looks around and thunder rolls, the rain that's been promised by the overcast sky all morning finally sweeping in. "Where's your needle and thread? We should get that head looked at."

"Bathroom." Sam slumps lower on the cushion and industriously toes his sneakers off.

"Lean up," Dean says when he comes back, sliding half behind Sam with one hip on the futon's arm. He tilts the gooseneck lamp to give himself better light and then threads the needle. "You good?"

"Yeah." Sam's breathing's a little fast, but it isn't pain. "Go ahead."

Dean's always had a gentle touch; other than the first startling-cold prick of the needle, it doesn't hurt at all. Halfway through, Dean tilts Sam's head to a new angle and readjusts the lamp again. "You drinking?" he asks and Sam's not sure if it's the question or the carefully noncommittal tone that makes him stiffen in resentment and sudden swirling anger.

"I was at _work_ , Dean. I don't go to the job drunk. And even if I did, I don't get so drunk that I _pass out_."

"It was just a question."

"No, it was a thinly veiled accusation," Sam answers. He starts to turn around and Dean's hands clamp down on his skull, holding him still. "I don’t drink like that, Dean. I'm not a drunk."

"I didn't say you were." Dean sighs and the needle bites a little harder than before. Sam hisses through his teeth.

"You didn't have to. You know, I didn't fucking ask you to come, Dean. I could have done this myself just fine."

Dean doesn't say anything but his thumb sweeps gentle over the knob of bone behind Sam's ear. Sam isn't in the least mollified.

"I had a _vision_ , okay?" he snaps and it feels like he's whining but he's also really fucking pissed that Dean would accuse him of that, after everything… "A stupid fucking vision, just like every other stupid vision I've ever had. Except I was tired and clumsy and I took a header into the fucking display case. I'm not a _drunk_ , Dean."

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Sammy," Dean says and in the mildness of his tone, Sam hears the _sorry_ that Dean will never actually vocalize. Dean snips the suture thread and then bends down, breath ghosting over the upper curve of Sam's ear a second before his lips close over the sensitive skin. Sam shudders, his back bowing in an involuntary arch and a startled, almost-pained noise drops off his lips before he can call it back.

"Dean," he breathes and Dean murmurs back, "Shhh."

And it's been _months_ , you know? Months since Dean's touched him—or anyone else for that matter. His whole skin feels like it's aflame, just from that little nibbling scrape across his ear. Dean's hand plants across the center of Sam's chest and pulls Sam back into him, Sam's shoulders pushing Dean's legs wide.

"Why…?" Dean asks, lips gliding wetly over Sam's neck now, sucking blood to the surface in electric edged pulses. "The goddamn _hospital_ called me, Sammy. Do you have any idea…?"

"I'm sorry," Sam says, twisting around in spite of the bruises and dragging his mouth messily over Dean's—once, twice—in something that's not quite a kiss, not quite a bite. He knows how scared Dean was, because that's how scared he would be. They don't go to hospitals. Not for anything short of life-threatening and for the call to come from strangers and from a hospital… "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I'm sorry."

Dean growls and closes the gap, mouth fastening onto Sam's hungry-angry and giving Sam no choice but to open up to the thrust of his tongue. Sam pushes into him, letting Dean plunder him, shaking now and making soft sounds in the back of his throat, needy, pleading. His fingers scrabble with Dean's over-shirt and the Henley underneath, desperate for skin. Dean's pulse beats against Sam's fingertips, hard and fast and he wants his whole body to move to that rhythm. Dean's fingers thread through his hair and Sam thinks that everything you need to know about Dean is in that gesture—the almost violent tug of his fingers in the strands while simultaneously completely careful to avoid the laceration in his scalp.

Dean eases him down, his weight pressing Sam into the futon. Sam arches his neck into Dean's grip on the nape, widens his legs so Dean can fit between them. When he thinks of Dean, it's like this, solid and heavy, substantial in a way Sam's never felt. Dean's thumbs pinch and play with Sam's nipples under his shirt and this is one of the things he's missed so wildly it comes back at odd and inopportune moments. Dean's mouth shifts and bites and slides over Sam's, making it feel as sensitive and raw as his nipples, and Sam wraps one leg around Dean's hip, urging him closer, tighter, with his heel.

When they were on the road it was like this sometimes, just lying on the latest crappy motel bed too tired to do more than kiss and lick and fondle, hump slow and sleepy against each other's thigh for hours at a time until they fell asleep, slack and half-sated.

Sam sighs a little in his throat. Dean's cock is riding firm against his and Sam thinks hours of this sounds just fine with him, the rain now shushing across the windows and stone in constant waves. God, he's tired. Turned on. Definitely turned on. But if it doesn't get past this stage…

But then Dean pulls back, his thumb ghosting over Sam's sideburn and says, "I want to fuck you, Sammy. Can we…?" He bends again to nip Sam's jaw and says again, muffled, "I want to fuck you."

"Jesus," Sam says, shivering with the loss of blood from everywhere except his cock. "Yeah, Dean; of course. I… Yeah. _Yeah._ "

Immediately Dean's hands are on Sam's fly, tugging at the zipper and button. Sam lifts his hips, feet sliding on the futon cover, so Dean can peel his clothes down to his knees, gentle still. Dean eases him back down then slips boxers and jeans over his ankles and feet. Sam arches his back to strip off his shirt, wincing as it aches in his bruises and brushes over his torn scalp. When his head clears the tangle of cloth, he finds Dean looking at him, thumbs making ticklish arcs on Sam's ankles and calves.

Sam inhales sharply, loving that glassy and hungry look, and spreads his legs a little wider.

Dean sucks in a breath then, eyes luminous though the whites are still faintly red with fatigue. "Touch yourself," he says roughly and Sam's eyes close, that same shudder running through him like a live wire to his dick. His hand twitches and then Dean's there, guiding him to close his fingers around the fullness of his cock.

"Dean," he gasps, not a protest.

"C'mon, baby," Dean's fingers slide away, leaving Sam holding his cock alone.

Sam's teeth indent his lip as he slips his fingers over his shaft, back arching, hips shifting up as if to put himself on display. And maybe he is, because with Dean watching him, wet and slightly open-mouthed, his cock thickens and darkens. Dean bends and presses a biting kiss to Sam's thigh, just above his knee and then laves his tongue over it lightly.

Sam whimpers. Dean reaches up and touches his wrist. "Slow, baby. Slow."

Sam nods and swallows. Dean repeats the kiss on the other thigh, a little higher, a little harder. There will be a bruise and Sam just knows that when Dean's gone, when he's alone again, he's going to jerk off digging his fingers into that bruise until he comes. Dean's hands knead Sam's legs, hard but soothing pressure against trembling muscles as Sam strokes himself and Dean eats-licks his way up Sam's legs.

"Dean," he cries again, frantic and shaking, when Dean's mouth licks wetly over his balls and then suckles. He can feel Dean's hair against his knuckles as he fists his cock and it feels like the kinkiest thing ever, tightening his whole body until he wants to spill right then. "Dean," he says a third time, urgent, and unwraps his fingers from his cock. "I can't… I'm gonna come."

Dean looks up at him, mouth debauched and swollen as he slithers a little higher up, pushing Sam's left leg higher and wider. "It's okay," he murmurs. "Want you to."

"But…" He's whining. Oh God, he's _whining_. Why is he like this? Why does Dean make him like this?

"Want to fuck you when you're all soft and come-out," Dean barges over him like Sam never spoke. "Want to fuck you hard again." He reaches and puts Sam's hand back around his cock. "Yeah?" He forces Sam's hand up and then down, the sticky sound the loudest thing in the whole studio. "Would you do that for me?" He bows again and licks a burning hot stripe up the taut sensitive skin under Sam's balls up and over to the root of Sam's shaft, lapping sloppily at Sam's fingers. A single dry finger circles Sam's opening and then sinks deep before he has the chance to get used to it.

Sam shouts, bucks, and then he's coming, hard and hurtful and Dean surges up the futon to fasten his mouth over Sam's, fucking urgently with his tongue. He pushes Sam's hand away from his cock, stroking him through the spasms until Sam wonders if he's going to die like this, everything in him pouring out through his dick.

He comes back to himself clutching Dean against him with both hands and aching fingers. He suddenly realizes that although he's completely naked, except for where Dean's opened his jeans and boxers to let his cock out, Dean's still entirely clothed.

He makes a protesting sound through their kiss and pulls back. "Be naked with me," Sam begs, wanting Dean's skin against his own. "Please, Dean, don't…" _Don't let this be cheap,_ he wants to say, but he's also afraid to look too close into Dean's reasons for all of this for fear it _is_ only that—his whore-brother Sam, close and easy and _needy_ as all fuck.

But Dean only nods. "Yeah, Sammy. Yeah." He kneels up to strip and Sam rolls up with him to run his fingers over the white, unmarked skin of Dean's hips and hard, flat belly. He brushes his cheek and lips across Dean's navel and pubes, breathing in his brother's scent and sex. "I have a bed, you know," he murmurs and glances up.

"God, your fucking _hair_ ," Dean says, dragging his hands through it. He sounds half-exasperated, half-wondering. "Fucked if I'd let them shave you when half the time I want to fuck your hair as much I want to fuck you."

Sam lips the side of Dean's cock, tasting Dean's pre-come in a sharp-flavored and entirely familiar burst. "Yeah, well, the hair's got to wait," he jokes, looking up again to watch Dean's face open and fall apart as he applies more tongue, "because I got first dibs." Dean's cock is so damn _hot_ and Sam loves the noise Dean makes, the way his fingers clutch no longer careful in Sam's hair when Sam takes him in.

Dean's hand covers one of Sam's ears and muffles sounds but Sam thinks he hears Dean murmur something like, "Always first, Sammy," and he moans around Dean, his own cock already trying to rally.

Dean coaxes him off then, Sam sucking hard the whole way until Dean comes out of his mouth with a loud, wet pop. Sam whines, but Dean's hands are in Sam's armpits, tugging him up onto his knees too. Dean kisses him, fingers buried in the thick hair at the nape of Sam's neck and then pushes him back, almost playful. "You said something about a bed?" he asks, smirking that old infuriating smirk because he knows—he _knows_ —how much Sam's brain is scrambled right now and he's _enjoying it_ , the fucker. On the other hand, Sam suddenly realizes—and it sends an almost chill through him—he can't remember the last time he saw that look on Dean's face, when it used to be familiar as his own.

"What?" Dean asks, the smirk falling away in confusion as he takes in the change in Sam's face. "I got come on my chin or something?" He wipes his face with the back of his hand and looks at the skin.

"No," Sam says. He sidles a little closer to Dean, pulling the his brother's hands around until they cup his ass. Immediately, Dean's hands tighten, and Sam's cock gives another interested twitch. "No. I just… It scares me sometimes. How much I want you. How…good this is." He closes the gap between them, his teeth teasing and pulling at Dean's bottom lip while Dean's fingers roam over his ass, between his cheeks and then feather across where he's most sensitive. Sam grinds forward, against Dean's naked and engorged cock and then back, against those quick-clever fingers. He licks Dean's mouth, messy, and then smiles, the smile Dean can't help but give back to him, every time. "How much I like it when you fuck me. You _were_ still planning on fucking me, right?"

And there's Dean's grin again, sharp enough to cut through Sam—not that he'd ever let Dean know or see that. "Bet your ass, Sammy."

Sam laughs. "I already _am_ , shithead."

He leads Dean around the futon to the bed. The sheets are threadbare and askew, half the blankets on the floor…and Sam doesn't care anymore. He stretches out on his belly, hips and ass tilted up at Dean in clear invitation and reaches sideways to scrabble through his nightstand for the bottle of lube.

Sam won't cop to the noises he makes when Dean slides two slicked fingers into him but he totally can't deny the way he thrusts back onto them, hips writhing for more, deeper, harder. He's loose from his orgasm but he's sensitive too and Dean's fingers feel enormous as they slip in him, finding all the places that make him gasp and moan. "Dean," he says, head down and panting, " _Dean._ Just fuck me already, okay? I just… Christ, Dean. Just fuck me."

Dean doesn't say anything, but the fingers of his other hand trace their way up Sam's heaving ribs to his shoulder. A moment later, Dean's fingers are gone from him and a larger, blunter pressure is there. Sam presses back as Dean thrusts forward and Sam grunts as Dean's cock passes into him, filling his body to a point he doesn't know whether to pull away or take it deeper. Dean's other hand curves around Sam's hip, fingertips stroking the skin like feathers and Sam focuses on that, making his body relax around Dean. Dean shifts slightly, the mattress, Dean and Sam groaning in varying tones as Dean slinks deeper.

"Dean," Sam says, dizzy with it, filled and empty at the same time. "Oh God, _Dean._ "

"Yeah," Dean says in answer. His fingers on Sam's shoulder tighten, pulling Sam up from his kneel. "Yeah, Sammy. Here. Right here. God. Right here."

Sam groans and braces his hands on the headboard as Dean rocks into him, slow, deep, leisurely, like they have all the time in the world to do this, be this, have this. And God, but Sam wants to believe that, even as he wants _more_. More this. More Dean. Sam tries to push backwards and fuck himself on Dean but the angle Dean has him at doesn't give him enough leverage to be forceful about it. "Dean—"

Lightning whites out the apartment , followed by the shotgun crack of thunder. Sam jumps despite himself, on a cresting edge and jittery under his skin.

"Shhh." And if anything, Sam would swear Dean _slows down_ , forcing Sam to feel every inch of Dean's cock as it shoves into him, as it slides out. "You said I could, Sammy. Now you have to let me enjoy it. God. Your tight little ass." Sam's head drops between his arms again, sweat blurring and stinging in his eyes. Dean's hand on his shoulder slips around to toy with Sam's nipples again, entirely too knowledgeable about how much roughness and for how long. Sam's back arches as Dean thrusts forward again and he almost-sobs as it feels like the entirety of Dean's cock goes over his prostate, a sustained pleasure-pain that revives his half-masted cock into fullness quick, fast and in a hurry. "Is it good, Sammy? Am I good for you?"

Sam whines, knowing Dean means the question in more than the dick-in-his-ass context and equally aware that _because_ of Dean's dick currently owning his ass, he doesn't have the brain power to answer anything more meaningful than his gasped, "God. Yeah, Dean. So good. Please. Please, Dean. Please."

Dean abandons Sam's nipples to skim down over Sam's pubes and then wraps his hand around Sam's cock. "Hold on tighter," Dean growls and Sam just obeys—can't do anything else but obey—as Dean pulls back, holds with just the head of him still in Sam, and then _slams_ forward, making Sam sob for real this time, the top of his headboard crashing into the brick.

"Yeah," Sam moans, "yeah, yeah, yeah, Dean, c'mon, yeah…"

Dean's _in him_ then, fucking deep and hard and fast and it's all Sam can do to just _hang on_ , his shoulders and biceps flexing to keep them both from crashing into the headboard and wall. His voice fails him for pure incoherent animal noises, rutting noises, and it's good, it's so fucking good that he's spurting out a second time before the leading edge of his orgasm hits him and unlocks his elbows to pitch him—them—forward.

Dean's arm slides around him with the swiftness of hunter's reflexes, pulling Sam back from a second concussion and Sam can only moan softly as Dean pushes him down into the pliancy of the mattress, still thrusting as Sam spasms and jerks around him. Dean curls around Sam's body, heat incarnate. "Miss you too, Sammy," Dean groans against Sam's shoulder. "Miss you so fucking much."

Weakly, Sam reaches up and behind to cup the back of Dean's head. "I'm here," he croaks, whimpering in his throat with aftershock. "I'm still here, still yours."

Dean keens, suddenly rigid, and then Sam can _feel_ his brother pulse inside him, complicating the feeling of full with hot and wet and slick and _good_. Sam makes one last strangled moan, one last spasming blurt from his cock and then they're both slack and gasping, tangled together tightly enough that Sam doesn't know where to start or draw the lines of division. Not that he really cares to.

"I'm sorry," he says for the dozenth time, or the hundredth or the billionth, as if it will undo anything, as if it could possibly make all this right again.

But he doesn't know if he actually gets the words to voice before he's stumbling off that breaking edge and into sleep.

***

  
_Then._

Joshua smiles and it must have been too long since Sam's gotten laid, because he feels suddenly blinded by how brilliantly pretty it is. "I was going to order some dinner and I was wondering if you wanted anything, since we're the last two here." He holds out the menu to Sam, bright orange and printed in Chinese characters and English.

Sam blinks but just the word _food_ makes his stomach twitch and growl in definitive opinion. He mentally tallies how much he's got left in his wallet and bank account respectively and says, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm starving."

"Yeah, well, no wonder," Joshua says with a half-laugh. His teeth are very white and probably cost someone a fortune in orthodontics once upon a time. "You've been here since five and you didn't even take lunch. Caffeine only gets you so far, you know."

Sam's nonplussed enough by that revelation that he doesn't even ask how Joshua knows whether he'd eaten or not. Has it really been that long? He knows he's been preoccupied with collating this research—and writing its simplified summary—for Michaelson, but he hadn't realized quite how much. Man. Maybe his headache can't be completely blamed on the vision after all. "I guess I just got into a groove," he says slowly.

Joshua makes that same half-laugh again and shakes his head. "More like a rut," he says and sprawls out in the uncomfortable chair on the other side of Sam's desk. His legs spread out casually—not like he's doing it on purpose—and suddenly Sam's got a really good idea whether Joshua dresses right or left (left) and whether he's proportional to the rest of his gawky height (he is). "You gotta be careful, man, or you're going to burn out."

Sam laughs and leans back in his own—only marginally more comfortable—chair, stretching his arms behind his head. "So says the man with a whole three weeks seniority?"

"They were a very _busy_ three weeks," Joshua says gravely, then flashes that smile again.

 _Jesus,_ Sam thinks. _Does he have any idea what he_ looks like _when he does that?_

He doesn't know Joshua that well yet; the demands of the job haven't left a lot of room for socializing even if Sam was so inclined, which he hadn't been.

He misses Dean.

Not seeing Dean, because he gets to do that fairly often now that the awkwardness of _no longer fucking_ has passed into the not _quite_ so much awkwardness of _Dean, married and with kid_. But…being with Dean. Fucking Dean, being fucked by Dean. Hell, just being _touched_ by Dean, instead of their mutual maintenance of negotiated personal space. And though he hasn't exactly been a monk, he hasn't _not_ been a monk either. And like the grumbling of his stomach at the mention of food, Sam's dick suddenly has an opinion of its own on the matter.

"Well," Sam says, trying to remember how this all goes; the pattering duck-and-feint of flirtation when it's more than a fast, sloppy fuck in a club somewhere. "Maybe you can tell me all the _really important_ lessons I missed over dinner?"

And Joshua's smile widens. "I'd like that."

***

Sam wakes from a deep and dreamless sleep because Dean's mouth is on his cock, tongue writhing hard against the nerves on the underside.

Sam jerks, yelps and then sort of collapses back against the mattress, fists writhing in the tangled sheets. His neck and head ache as he cranes up and stares at Dean, uncomprehending. "Dean?" he asks, confused.

Dean pulls off with a breathless sound and grins at him. "Once an hour, bitch," he says before he engulfs Sam again, pulling the loudest, most embarrassing moan out of Sam as his hips stutter up sharply. Dean's thumbs soothe him down again and Sam lets him, just so numbly, stupidly grateful that it hurts almost as much as his head.

_Dean. Oh, God…Dean._

_Once an hour_. He knows this from their many concussions too; for the next twenty-four hours, Dean's going to wake him once an hour to make sure he still _can_ wake up. If Dean's going to use this method on him every time, though, Sam may just die anyway.

It doesn't take him long to come; he's too wrung out and malleable to think of holding back. Afterwards, Dean cuddles him like when Sam was little and afraid of things in the dark. Sammy closes his eyes against his brother's chest and let's Dean's heartbeat lull him through the darkness.

The next time he wakes, it's to dying grumbles of thunder and the soft, agitated sound of Dean's voice: "…concussion and I can't just leave him alone. No. _No._ I don't give a shit, Lena, I'm not going to just abandon him because you don't feel like sitting home with the kids. Yeah. Well, they're _your_ kids too…"

Dean's tone is belied by the gentleness of his fingers around Sam's bare ankle, thumb sweeping Sam's instep in little arcs. Sam doesn't want to know, doesn't want to think about Lena, or Dean's kids, or hear that awful glass-edged anger in Dean's voice so he let's go and falls again.

Later.

"Hey." Dean's voice again, a whisper that nonetheless rumbles through Sam's bones. It's still raining, gentle again, and he can hear the swish of cars cutting through the puddles. Sam is facing the nightstand, Dean circled warm and solid against his back. Dean's hand is curved over him and his fingers are twined through his brother's, but Sam doesn't remember doing it. "Still with me?"

"Always," Sam breathes before his better judgment can call it back and Dean's lips find the back of Sam's neck, burning like a brand.

***

  
_Then._

"…so then I said to him, 'you can buy it if you want to, sir, but I won't wear it!'"

Sam laughs a little harder than he really means, just to watch that smile dawn across Joshua's face again. It's _sweet_ , that's what it is. It's a kid's smile, unfettered and unaware. _Or maybe,_ Sam thinks, _It's just the smile of someone that's never killed anything bigger than a housefly in his whole life._

He wonders when that will stop bothering him. He wonders _if_ it will.

"You called your father sir?" he asks, genuinely interested in that part, because he doesn't know anyone around their age who ever had to do that outside of him and Dean.

Joshua shrugs and if it ever bothered him, it doesn't show now. "He was kind of strict. I mean…it was good for us, you know? Kids can get crazy without a firm hand and my dad was bound and determined that was never going to happen to me and Ellie—Ellie's my sister. And now Ellie's going to be starting college in a few months and I'm here. So…I don't mind it, really. He only does it because he loves us." Joshua twirls his chopsticks over his fingers. Then he looks startled. "But, hey, what about you? What's your dad like?"

Sam's mouth crooks. "Oh, my dad passed on several years ago," he admits. What he doesn't say—never says, in fact—is: _and then me and my brother took him out into a field under the open winter sky and we soaked him in gasoline and holy water and then burned him until there was nothing but bone fragments and ash that we scattered to the winds._ Because outside of him and Dean, who's going to get that part? And even they don't _talk_ about it.

Joshua looks stricken and Sam waves him off. "Water under the bridge, man. Seriously. I… I was just glad we got to have some real heart-to-hearts before he went."

"Man," Joshua says. "I can put my foot in it, can't I? Well, what about the rest of your family?"

Sam shrugs. "Just me and my brother. Well, and his wife and his kid, now." He digs his wallet out of his pocket and flips it open to the few pictures he has. "That's Dean. That's his wife, Lena and that's my niece, Miria."

"Miria? That's kind of unusual name. She's adorable. And your brother and his wife are hot."

Sam grimaces and shrugs again, flipping the billfold shut. "Lena—Yelena—is Russian and it was close enough to our mom's name that Dean just said okay." He replays Joshua's comment, wondering if it's meaningful that he noticed Dean's hotness and _before_ he commented on Lena's. He also wonders what Joshua would do if he punched him but that's just residual jealousy and Sam's working on that part. "She's a great kid."

He looks up at Joshua and notices him leaning just a bit too close. The kid's pupils are blown, a thin line of perspiration gleaming on his smooth upper lip. God, they're almost exactly the same age; how is it that Joshua looks so fucking young?

 _Oh, this could be such a rookie mistake,_ Sam thinks, even though he knows it isn't. He can feel Joshua's want now, bouncing off him like heat waves. And worse—or better—he can feel how he can steer this, making it what he wants, what he needs.

"Joshua?" he says.

"Yeah?" Joshua blinks and starts to lean back, out of Sam's space. Sam puts one hand on Joshua's shoulder, holding him steady.

"I'm going to kiss you now. And then, in a minute, if you let me, I'm going to suck your cock. Are you all right with that?" He ducks his head a little and looks into Joshua's eyes again, watching his already wide pupils explode just that much wider. "You down for this plan of action?"

"I… Erm…" Joshua flounders, but his body again leans in those extra couple centimeters. "Yeah. Yeah, I think that would be just fine."

"Good," Sam says and closes the gap.

Kissing Joshua is nothing like kissing Dean. Not that he's at all comparing. But Joshua. Man. He's got the firm, strong lips, but it's almost like he doesn't know what to do with them, passive and trembling when Sam comes to settle on his strong, long thighs, Joshua's tie wrapped in his fist. Finally, Sam knots his other hand in Joshua's curly brown hair, tips the kid's head back and devours him, trying to instruct through pressure and angle and tongue.

Joshua whines softly, his hands coming to light on Sam's hips carefully, like Sam is something that'll break. When Sam pulls away, eyes half-lidded, Joshua looks up at him. "I just… Jesus, you're so beautiful, Sam. I never thought…"

Sam doesn't want to hear it. Not from this face and this voice. "Joshua," he says and he hates how much his voice sounds like Dean's when he was trying to get Sam to stop talking, but Dean might have had a point about that, he concedes. "Shut up, okay?"

"Yeah," Joshua agrees breathlessly. "Okay, yeah."

Sam bends again and starts chewing his way across those soft-hard lips, Joshua's hips making tiny writhes against his. Suddenly the quasi-silence is broken by Sam's phone buzz-bumping across the desk. Fuck.

Sam leans back and snags the phone. Text message. From Dean. Fucking _finally_. He thumbs the tab.

**phne almst ded. evrythngs cool, bitchface. hme in cpl hrs if u wana chk in. D.**

"Anything important?" Joshua asks when Sam breathes a silent sigh of relief. He tosses the phone back on the desk where it clatters across the smooth surface and off the other side.

"Nah," Sam says and turns back to Joshua. "Where were we?"


End file.
